


nothing else matters

by tinyfingers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Character Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-05 10:39:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18826984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyfingers/pseuds/tinyfingers
Summary: Jaime tries to love in the best way he can - and the way he has chosen for himself is to give others what they want.





	1. To Winterfell

**Author's Note:**

> First GOT fic, inspired by the horrors of show canon, deviates slightly from 7x07 onwards, focuses on Jaime’s POV. This is my way of being ok with what the show has given us. Comment, give me a review, let me know if it’s any good.

_Fuck loyalty,_ she’d said. They were the last words he’d expected to have heard from her - one of his most honorable friends, and a reminder of what this was. A battle of life and death. The living against the dead.

 _And what was the good of sitting on the Iron Throne if there were no more people to sing your name?_ It is why he rides for Winterfell alone, even if Cersei is carrying his child. The child will not see the golden light. She will be mad at him - for leaving her, for breaking their bond - but it will not be the first time. This time he knows it's right even if her stare burns into his soul. 

He thought he knew death. He knew loss, bloodshed, pain, scars. He knew how it felt to forget all that you once knew, and to relearn everything that had been your pride. It still doesn’t feel the same riding a horse with only one hand to hold the reins, he will never be the same swashbuckling knight again.

But the wight - that was death. It would have been one thing to go into the earth, and leave as a memory. It was another to be risen from the dead and to go against the very people you wanted to protect. And he knows that his brother, his friends - they are facing death squarely in the eye.

How could a knight of the Seven Kingdoms sit out of the battle for the living? He leaves in the night, before Cersei can order men to stop him, before he can stop himself. He doesn't wait for a squire to fetch him a horse, he chooses one and hopes it's fresh, and has just enough water for a day's ride. He has Widow's Wail, his armour, and boots not made for winter. 

He strays off the Kingsroad for some of the way, with snow packed onto the earth from bannermen riding North, and becoming slippery as a result. He’s already lost an arm, he’d be useless if he lost another limb falling onto the ice.

Bashing through some of the overgrown forests, Jaime recalls the time he made this same journey on foot with Brienne of Tarth. Except this time his boots are drier, he has one golden hand, and there isn’t a rope waiting to strangle him.

He remembers the fights they had, the scars they both earned during those travels, and wonders if he is the same man he was then. Quieter, maybe. More grey hair.

What good is a knight if he can’t protect the people he loves? He’s not sure he is in love with Brienne the same way he always thought he loved Cersei. She doesn’t make his eyes light up with desire, doesn’t badger him for kisses and affection, nor does she shower him with them in return.

Instead, they exchange polite nods, apologies, and unrestrained gratitude. _I trust you_ . If there was a trial by combat to face in Winterfell - and it is not unlikely, he thinks - he doesn’t doubt for a moment that only the wench would stand up for him. _And she’d win_. She didn’t take any of his vows, but she’s more of a knight than he thinks he ever was.

Bronn thinks he’d fuck her if she ever gave him an opening. Jaime isn’t so sure that’s the kind of feelings he has for her. He’d take a stab for her, he knows. And her him. But she isn’t the kind of woman who wants to lie with him and let the days while them away. _Unlike many of the other maidens who ever gave him the same looks she does._ He's certain that Brienne would much rather spar with him, fight him, make him yield. 

Jaime would beat her only once out of 10 fights. But he's ok with that. 

_\--_

He doesn’t want to think about the upcoming battle. How do you fight the dead? How do you counter an opponent who feels no pain?

But he practices, in the evenings, just before he takes his short naps and his horse rests. He goes through his footwork, practising the ways to dodge and lunge. He adds an unpolished hacking style to his repertoire, thinking of how the undead wouldn’t be thinking of parrying or countering his blows. _They wouldn’t be thinking at all_.

All he knows is that he wants to fight alongside Brienne of Tarth, alongside his brother, alongside the living. The Snow boy is a decent fighter, and has a good sword by his side. They’ll need all the good swords they have in the kingdom, and he knows his blade comes second to few.

Jaime doesn’t expect a friendly welcome when he arrives at Winterfell, but he doesn’t expect to be spat at by the first 10 men that he comes across.

“Kingslayer, ay, you’re just a cripple with gold wrapped around your cock.” "Not so much a golden lion anymore, Lannister?"

He lets them put chains around him, drag him. He knew it had to come.

What he doesn’t expect is for Brienne of Tarth to vouch for his honour, and Lady Stark of Winterfell to vouch for him on her sworn sword’s unwavering trust. She looks different from when he saw her last - there is a weariness in her eyes that he isn’t accustomed to seeing in a child that age - is she still a child?

But the wench does, without any doubt in her voice. And he is grateful for it.

Which is why he follows her around Winterfell, trying to tell her that he is _thankful_ and _I owe you my life._ But she is cold, unflinching, and relentless in her pursuits to make soldiers out of these Northmen. Most of them wield their swords with an unpracticed hand, look like they’re barely keeping their balance. They don’t look like they’d last 10 minutes, let alone 10 hours. But how long would the battle last? How long would the night fall before it ends?

Snow’s right. They need every man they can get. And in this battle, he is no commander, no celebrated knight. He is a man of the Seven Kingdoms, and this is as much his battle as hers, and the next man who will stand beside them in combat.

 _The things we do for love_ , Bran Stark said.

_What is love, here? The love he knows is one of passion, of wanting. But this is not quite love, he doesn't think._

He finally catches her while she keeps an eye over her troops.

“What do you want, Ser Jaime.” She says his name with a hardness, and her gaze does not waver.

“I need to talk to you. To thank you. For vouching for my honour, even if I have little left. I know I’m not much of a soldier with my one hand, but I have a Valyrian blade, and I’d like to fight alongside you and your men."

“If you’ll have me.”

She looks at him, almost pityingly at his golden hand. But her gaze ventures to Widow’s Wail, and nods. “We need every man we can get.” Her voice is cold, but there is a warmth that betrays her sapphire eyes.

“Thank you.”

“You owe your thanks to my lady.”

\--

Jaime picks up a dragonglass blade from the armoury, and finds a boy to spar with. He looks young, he would have been barely older than Tommen, he thinks. But he’s more nimble than a lot of the others in the yard, and he at least holds his sword with a relaxed wrist.

“Good grip, lad,” Jaime mentions, as they cross blades.

“My father and brothers served Lord Stark, they were taught well. And they taught me.”

The boy speaks softly, and despite the bitterness that his words should hold, he doesn’t look vengeful. Instead, there is a sadness that Jaime recognises - one of loss, regret, and the knowledge that nothing can be changed about the present.

“What’s your name?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m the last of my House, maybe if we meet after the battle, it’ll be worth something.”

\--

Later that night, he sits among Northmen at dinner. Each person has a small bowl of stew, with meat he can’t quite discern, but he gulps it down quickly anyway. It has been a few days since he had a hot meal, with his last tavern stop too many nights ago.

He spots Tyrion and Brienne at a table at the front of the Great Hall - they’re joined by the wildling, Tormund, who looks at Brienne with a look that Jaime doesn’t like. He recognises the hunger, the desire - Tyrion used to get the same gleam in his eyes when he was going to a new brothel.

His younger brother catches him staring, and raises the jug of wine on their table along with an empty mug, beckoning him to join them. Jaime obliges, but he avoids Brienne’s eyes as he holds his bowl of stew in his left hand and balances a piece of stale bread in the awkward curved palm of his appendage.

But awkward as he feels, he doesn’t hesitate to nudge the ginger wildling slightly as he squeezes onto the bench, sitting in front of the Tarth heir. She doesn’t say anything, but she pours half a cup of wine for him, and switches his bread with another piece at their table. Clearly they have a different bread at this table, this close to the lords and ladies of Winterfell. He finally looks up to meet her gaze, but he doesn’t say anything.

 _Eat more_ , she mumbles, soft enough that only he hears it, even though the Great Hall is dulled with the impending battle. He is not quite finished with his meal when she gets up to leave, and he almost gets up as well, but he feels a hand on his arm.

“We need to speak, brother.”


	2. Before Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime's way of love is to give others what they want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter draws a lot from 8x02 - which is one of my favourite episodes, for reasons shared with many of you, I believe. The timeline is jumbled slightly from the episode, but hey, it's AU, somewhat.

“Cersei told me the pregnancy had changed her. A chance for you both to start again, and I believed her.”

Tyrion looks up at his older brother, but Jaime knows it’s a look of pitying contempt.  _ How could he be so stupid, for so many years, to believe all her words and live by her rules.  _

“Was she lying about the baby too?”

Jaime looks down, almost embarrassed about his sin - it had mostly been swept under the carpet, even if Tyrion knew they’d been fucking for decades. 

“No, that part is real.” His voice wavers, just for a moment, and he knows his brother hears his doubt. “She’s always been good at using the truth to tell lies. I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself. She’s fooled me more than anybody.”

Tyrion pauses, examining his brother: “She never fooled you. You always knew exactly what she was and you loved her anyway.”

He ventures on, but Jaime looks on the other side of the wall -  _ there she is.  _

_ Brienne of Tarth, examining her men, playfighting - can they really be the men she’s trained? Her eyes are wandering, too, but she commands the earth with her strides, standing at least half a head taller than any man under her word.  _

His younger brother’s eyes have caught him - just as he had caught him pining for Cersei, once upon a time. 

_ He hopes he won’t regret leaving her in King’s Landing, with only Qyburn to stop her hunger for power and thirst for blood. A part of him believes what she told Tyrion - that the pregnancy has changed her, and their child, their fourth child with a chance of surviving this war, will have a different mother.  _

_ Tyrion was right. He always knew what Cersei was, and he loved her anyway. And he knows she loved him - but what does Ser Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, know about love?  _

_ Loving Cersei was about making her happy - whether it meant sneaking around, pushing little boys out of towers, becoming a bodyguard of the Mad King. Even if it meant he never learned what it felt like to hold his newborn children in his arms. Or hear their first words, calling him ‘papa’, teaching them how to wield a sword even if he was poor with a quill. He would listen to her, let her dictate his wishes. Her happiness felt like his the same.  _

\-- 

“You’re not a soldier, Ser.” Her tone is cold again - despite the warmth she had shown the day previous, and he wonders if it’s how she must conduct herself in the presence of her men.  _ But she is not for pretences, he knows.  _

“My name is Jaime.” He looks at her, almost teasingly -  _ he waits for her to insult him, so he can return the favour, but her mind is clearly on the war.  _

“I’m not the fighter I used to be,” he admits, looking at his golden hand, shining in the faded winter light. 

“But I came to Winterfell because I trust you. If this fight is worth all the fights that you have been through, and if you insist that the Stark girls’ place is where you have to be - then I’d like to be one of your men.” 

She doesn’t reply, but her eyes lock into his, almost questioning:  _ Who are you, Jaime Lannister?  _

_ Most days he doesn’t know either. He knows the Lannister bit, he barely wears the Ser. But he can say it a million times without ever knowing what it means - my name is Jaime.  _

“I’d better get back.” She walks away, his gaze still on her -  _ she’s still wearing the armour he’d had made for her, and Oathkeeper still on her hip. She trusts me, enough.  _

He’s about to walk away from the practice yard, when he hears heavy footsteps dragging snow behind him. 

“Ser Jaime.”

The voice is uncertain, but he recognises it. 

“Hello, Podrick. You’ve gotten better at the sword, but your feet, they aren’t used to the snow, are they.”

“My Lady trained me on better ground, yes, but there is some way to go. Ser, why are you here? And why fight under my Lady’s vanguard, as a common foot soldier?” 

The boy has grown a stubble in the years since they met last, he speaks with less of a mumble, and his paunch has faded. But he is still a squire, and will probably never be a knight. But he speaks with honesty, and  _ her honour.  _

“Your Lady is no ordinary warrior.” 

\--

Later that night, he’s not surprised when Tyrion finds a room with the warmest fire he’s felt since arriving in the North. 

“I remember the first time we were here. The first time I saw this hall, you were a golden lion, I was a drunken whoremonger. It was all so simple.”

“It wasn’t so simple. I was sleeping with my sister and you had one friend in the world who was sleeping with his sister.”  _ He winces as he says it - but it gets easier the more he does, Jaime thinks. He was a golden lion who had the world the last time he saw Winterfell. And now all that remains of his golden days is a useless piece of metal.  _

_ He remembers being a child, and Tyrion as a boy - how he'd badgered him for time, time away from Cersei, and their father, and their glaring hatred. All his sibling had wanted was a brother, a friend. And he tried to be the best friend that his brother could have - because it was all he had to give, he couldn't protect him from the anger that Tywin harboured towards his son for killing his wife, nor the hatred Cersei held for taking their mother away from them. But he loved Tyrion from the first time he saw him, large head and all - the screaming baby calling out for the love of his family. He wonders, if he did enough. If he gave enough.  _

“Well, my golden lion days are over but whoremongering is still an option for you.” 

“It’s not,” his brother says, quietly. “Things would be easier if it were. The perils of self-betterment,” Tyrion finishes, raising his cup. 

Jaime doesn’t get to meet his drink when the door opens, and Brienne and Podrick stride in. “My lady,” he says hurriedly, getting out of his chair. 

She declines Tyrion’s offer of wine -  _ she never really had a taste for it  _ \- but relents for her squire. “Half cup.” 

“Join us,” Jaime says, pulling out a chair in front of the hearth. “All right, just a bit,” she softens. He holds out the chair for her, waiting for  _ his lady _ before taking the seat beside her. 

They have company. Ser Davos, and the wildling Tormund - Jaime meets the latter’s eye, and by the gleam in the ginger’s eye, he reckons he’s had a barrel of ale for the night. He notices the lady tensing up as Tormund approaches, and her hand unconsciously resting on  _ Oathkeeper _ . 

“They call you King Killer,” the wildling states, his gaze hardening. 

“I’m sure someone does,” Jaime smirks, his eyes wandering in  _ her  _ direction, knowing that the wildling is threatened.  _ It has, been a while. He doesn’t pay much attention to the wildling’s drunken muttering, but observes how she treats Tormund. Cold, indifferent, but is that a little fear?  _

_ His mind wanders - even after a long day she sits upright in her chair, hand trained on the pommel of her sword, her gaze certain, battle ready. He wants to reach out and touch her hand - he remembers a freckle on the back of her sword-hand - to let her know it’s better to approach a battle soft. She hasn’t been in many battles like this one, even though she fought for a Baratheon. She must feel the nerves, there must be some green anxiety that some drink would help ease. But maybe not for her.  _

_ So while his brother rambles on about the battles they have fought, survived, run away from, he thinks of what would give her the confidence for the long night to come. He remembers the conversations they had - or maybe more of her trying to get him to shut up as they traipsed through forests - and when she would talk about being in Renly’s service. She did always have a thing for pretty men.  _

“Ser Brienne of Tarth,” he hears his brother begin, “Pardon me, Lady Brienne.” 

“She’s not a ser? You’re not a knight?” Tormund probes, putting his drink aside for a moment.  _ That horn - is bottomless.  _   
“Women can’t be knights.” “Why not?” 

“Tradition.” “Fuck tradition.”

“I didn’t even want to be a knight.” She tries to avoid Podrick’s questioning look - they had too many conversations about the knight she’d trained to become, about the knight’s honour she wanted him to uphold, even if no one were to ever call him ‘Ser Podrick’. 

“I’m no king, but if I were, I’d knight you 10 times over.” 

“You don’t need a king. Any knight can make another knight.” Jaime hears the silence in the room, the doubt swelling. “I’ll prove it,” he half-smiles, drawing Widow’s Wail from his belt, his swing smoother than he remembers it to be. “Kneel, Lady Brienne.”

She laughs softly,  _ don’t mock me _ . “Do you want to be a knight or not?” His tone grows serious, and he sees her eyes turn to contemplation - at what this is.  _ What this means _ . She turns her head to meet his eyes, and he recognises that longing. 

_ All his life he’d wanted to be a fighter. The best of them all. The hours sparring with men older than him, even if they let him win sometimes because his name was Lannister. The blisters that became calluses on his feet, and how his right hand grew larger than his left from the hours of practice. He remembers the day that Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, gave him his highest honour - his eyes, they must have looked the same.  _ “Kneel,” he said, his head bowing into an encouraging nod. 

She walks slowly toward him,  _ and he knows this is what she has wanted her whole life. He sees the uncertainty as she gets on one knee, the doubt seeping in - if he was mocking her.  _ He raises his sword, and mentally clears his throat.  _ It is my greatest honour.  _

“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent. Arise, Brienne of Tarth, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

She meets his eyes, at last - he recognises the gratitude, the happiness, how humbling it had felt, all those years ago. 

_ His way of love - had always been to give them what they wanted. And he knows, Brienne wanted nothing more in the world - than to have honour in her name, than to hold honour in her stride. A knight of the Seven Kingdoms.  _

Her lip quivers slightly as she rises to her feet, her eyes saying  _ thank you _ . All the times they’d looked at each other, a wordless gratitude exchanged - but this one was different.  _ She was more of a knight than he ever was, would ever be. She was an innocent - the same one he had been charged to protect, and maybe tonight Jaime knows what it means to have the Ser in his name. If protecting Brienne the innocent is what he felt compelled to ride into the cold to do, then maybe he is worthy of the title.  _

_ And he knows, she is the knight he’d ride into battle and lay his life down for. To give to her the highest honour she wants - above riches, praise or kindness. Above love, or maybe to him, to love is to honour.  _

They drink to her knighting, and to Jaime remembering at the most convenient of times - that a knight makes another knight.  _ Who needs a king? Who needs a leader to decide if a man, or a woman, is deserving of that right?  _

She comes to him as he pours out another cup of wine - it keeps him warm, for despite the hearth and the company, the cold and him do not agree. 

“Jaime,” she mutters, almost to herself. “Thank you.” 

“You have always been a knight, just not yet in name.” He steps closer to her, tilting his head up to meet her gaze, looking into her eyes -  _ were they always this blue?  _ He almost forgets himself: “Perhaps I won’t know if you become one of them, if they all have blue eyes.”  _ Or maybe he will, because they won’t look at him the same way she does - with kindness, forgivingly, they’re soft, pleading.  _

“They’ll always be blue, I suppose,” she almost whispers, but clinks her cup against his as she does. Half a cup of wine, in celebration. “But should I have much to worry, if I have a knight watching my left?” It’s an invitation, to flank her in battle. 

“If you’ll have me.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime loves in his own way - and he is someone who has been manipulated his whole life. But maybe all he wanted was something simple to take pride in. Maybe we're not so different.


	3. Muddled Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the Long Night comes, they play the waiting game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here’s where the divergence begins, I guess. If there’s something I hated about how the Battle of Winterfell went down, it was how the war unfolded, and how everyone was so scattered - there wasn’t a real build-up. So here we go.

He doesn’t awake with the light these days. Mostly because there isn’t much light until nearly mid-day, but in part due to the fact that Tyrion kicks his cot on his way out of his quarters. “There’s much to do, no time for rest, dear brother.” 

But Jaime doesn’t complain. His younger sibling is right, annoying as the way he says it. There are too many rations to stock, plans to make, men to train, weapons to sharpen. He’s never been this unprepared for battle, and it seems like no one in Winterfell has much of an inkling how this should be done. Too many battle-tested warriors have been killed in recent fights, and many of the men who have been through war are aged, bitter and angry, convinced that this is a war they’ve already lost. “Don’t race to your death,” he heard one grumbling, as he examined a shield that a blacksmith’s boy was cleaning. 

Tyrion had a cot brought to his chambers, before Jaime could say anything. He spent the first night in the barracks, just because the Queen’s Hand thought it’d be funny to see the golden lion suffer a little. He didn’t mind it all that much, it was important to know how morale was, and where his comrades’ heads were at. But mostly because many of them talked about how they had lost their loved ones, and Jaime admired how they were able to say so with that freedom.  _ He never had the chance to grieve properly - losing Myrcella made him feel like the failure of a father he had been for too many years, with the excuse of a drunken king to hide his misgivings. He was too young to grieve his mother, too blinded to grieve the loss of Tywin. He wonders if he’ll feel the same anguish that a boy of twelve described upon losing all his kin when word of Cersei’s death comes. When he learns of his failure to protect yet another of his children. _

_ If he’s still alive when that happens.  _

Podrick is often the first person he sees at the training yard. With two swords in one hand, slashing at a barrel, practising his stance and movements.  _ Smart choice, he thinks. When the dead come they won’t care how you come at them, but being quicker, harder, will help.  _

She lets him join him in training her men. Acknowledges that even with one hand, he has won more battles than she hopes to fight. They teach the more experienced men to fight in formation, hoping that the days are long enough for them to absorb, and that during the Long Night, they’ll have enough light to recognise when their comrades are still men. 

The younger boys are taught to wield a dragonglass blade, how to aim, lunge, slash.  _ There won’t be much time for that, maybe we should teach them how to run, he mumbles to himself as he sees another child, no more than 10, trip over his feet.  _

It isn’t until he sees a man kill a rodent with a shield that he realises that’s a better option to explore. They set some of the men to practising with the shields, jabbing and working with those picking up spears, and Jaime’s pleased to see that it comes much easier to them. “Would be useful when they swarm, don’t you think?” He looks at her, but her eyes are solemn. “I hope so.”

He realises that she is terrified by the thought of her men falling to death. It is inevitable, and it is part of war, he tries to tell her one evening. They’re out in the yard, where only a few men remain. She ignores him at first, but he prods further. “You can’t save them, Brienne. It’s not in your hands. They know what the cause is.” 

“I don’t want to send them to their deaths.” 

“Well, we’re all marching to our doom. But which would you rather: to go in search of it, or let it take you as it pleases?” He puts a hand on her shoulder, lets it linger -  _ she doesn’t push him away.  _

\--

That night, Tyrion catches him with his quill, sitting at his desk.

“What are you doing? You can’t write, not with your left.” He pauses, before he observes him closer: “Can you?” 

Jaime ignores him, but he can’t cover the mangled scrawl that is the best he can muster. He was never good at his letters, but his damned hand doesn’t help. 

He writes to Cersei, wondering if the raven will reach her before the Long Night takes it. 

_ Cersei - I am in Winterfell. The Northmen are preparing to fight the Night King, as they call him. They’re not well-trained, and could do with our bannermen coming North. There will be no Seven Kingdoms if Winterfell falls.  _

_ I hate the North the same as when we came here, before. It’s still barren. But they are human too, and we need every man we can have.  _

He looks up at Tyrion, who sits in his rocking chair, smirking as he looks at him. “Ah, dear brother, you’re still her fool.”

“Maybe she’ll…” “Maybe she’ll see it as an opportunity to march North to take advantage of our weak forces. Or not, she’s not sending her armies anywhere the dead can reach them. She’s not stupid, Jaime.”

“She always said I was the stupidest Lannister. I have to try.” 

_ If not for me, do it for our child. I beg you of it. - Jaime.  _

_ Does she wonder if I made it to the North? Or has she found another man to keep her warm at night?  _ “Well, if she reads your letter before the Greyjoy vomits all over it.” Tyrion interrupts his thoughts, and pushes a goblet of wine into his hands. “Drink.”

He looks over at a pile of parchments on Tyrion’s desk, some rolled up and ready to be sent out. “Send this to King’s Landing for me, won’t you?” “We have more important things to be concerned with than trying to convince our sister that she should sacrifice men for our cause.”

He gulps some wine, then unrolls a map of the Houses in the North. “We’re going to run out of food before the Night King can come for us. We’ve managed to get more stores from the Karstarks, and the Umbers have promised to send some grain, while Theon arrived with some rations that may just feed the Ironborn. But it’s not enough for the Dothraki and the Unsullied, much less the dragons, and it’s not safe to let them roam North of the wall.” 

“Have the Glovers replied to Lady Sansa’s call?” Tyrion spits out his wine, and laughs darkly. “Cowards, those. I hear the Hornwoods have sent more ravens south, but even if any heed the call, it’ll be weeks before they arrive.” 

“So, I guess we drink.” “We drink.” 

\-- 

“My lady.” Tyrion sees Sansa in the Great Hall alone, it is too early for most of the men, but they have both been early risers. “Walk with me?” 

She gets up, but the worry in face suggests that she has been agonising over the same problems he has. “I appreciate your help with the food stores, my lord. But I fear the Dothraki will not take too kindly to rationing.” 

“They will not,” he agrees. “But we have to try. It’s our only option at this point, is it not?” 

She nods, and gazes towards the North wistfully. “What will you do when they come?” 

“My Queen would have me in the crypts. I suppose a dwarf with an axe will not be much use if a pile of wights decide to jump aboard. I will be quite good company, don’t you worry.” 

Sansa laughs, even if it’s short and quickly overtaken by fear. “If they come into the crypts, we will have no one to defend us.” “Well, maybe that’s why I’ll be there, my lady.” 

“He’s changed, you know?” Tyrion examines her slowly, thinking that she was talking about Jaime, but the annoyance in her tone makes him realise that it is her half-brother that she’s referring to. “He’s still straight as an arrow, if that’s what you’re worried about. Your sister’s changed too, and you don’t seem as concerned about her.” 

“Arya will be Arya. But Jon… he loves the Queen, and love, love makes men stupid.” 

Thinking of his brother, Tyrion nods slowly. “It does, but stupid men do great things for the rest of us.” 

\--

They settle into a routine - after dinners, they head back to practice more. He gets used to fighting alongside her, rather than against her, familiarising themselves with each others’ styles. Her footwork is nimble for her size, but she lunges too hard. “You need to conserve some of that energy if we’re going to be fighting for hours, days on end, wench.” 

She glares at him, the same way every time he calls her  _ wench _ , knowing he does it to illicit a response. “And you need to learn how to catch your blind side better.” 

“I’ve got you to flank me, don’t I?” His tone is playful, in contrast to her solemnness.  _ He enjoys these dances with her, he thinks. If only they didn’t come under these circumstances. He still wishes to tell her that she doesn’t need to fight by his side always, and that he’s likely not to hold out the fight. He’s old and way past his prime, with only one good hand to show for his life, and he knows there’ll be a moment in battle where he’ll be overwhelmed. And Brienne of Tarth being the Ser she is, will turn her back on the onslaught to get him out of it. Only he doesn’t really want her to.  _

“We don’t have time for games, Ser Jaime.”  _ Her eyes are tired, like the weariness that has set into her shoulders. They have been preoccupied with battle for too long, and morale is dwindling among the camp. They can’t have her morale fall too.  _

“Come with me, we’re done with practice for the day.” He sheathes his sword, and nudges her hand slightly until she reluctantly returns Oathkeeper to her hip. She doesn’t disagree with him. 

He leads her to the Godswood, where Bran usually is. But he seems to have left a while ago, for there are no fresh tracks from his chair, and there are no footsteps to suggest others have been there in the last few hours. “It’s the quietest place in Winterfell now.” _ It’s what she needs, he thinks, being surrounding by the clang of metal all day, and the groans from the men.  _

_ Her eyes are brighter in the quiet. As she lets herself sink into the silence of the trees and gazes into the starless night sky, all he sees is the night in her eyes. Sapphires, darkened by the troubles in her head.  _

“Did you send a raven back to Tarth?” He interrupts the quiet, he can’t help himself. She doesn’t respond, but a sadness creeps into her eyes, betraying the secret she’s keeping to herself. “Why not?” 

“There’s no point, is there? I send a raven home - to tell them I’m now in the service of the Starks of Winterfell, that I am fighting an impossible army, and that I don’t expect to be alive? What good does that really do? Perhaps if I don’t make it, I’ll have the Tarly boy send my father a note.” Her voice quickens, but she doesn’t meet his gaze. 

“The first time I rode into battle as a commander - I wanted to tell my family that  _ if I no longer were _ , it was because I died doing something I love. But as the battles came and went, I never really believed we’d lose. But this time it’s different. I don’t think any of us will be alive when the night ends. I’d write your father, tell him of the bravery of Ser Brienne of Tarth, the greatest fighter…”

“Oh, don’t patronise me.” She looks at him angrily at this point, and he knows  _ she hates it when he mocks her. But I’m not mocking you.  _ “Do you really think you’re not among the best knights we have here? You could beat most of these men in a straight fight. And I will write to the Evenstar, and tell him that Brienne of Tarth is the best woman I’ve met, so he remembers his heir as the knight she deserves to be known as.” 

_ She is stronger than I am, better than I could be.  _

\--

Arya walks to the armoury late at night - she half-hopes Gendry will be there, with her weapon ready for her, but she knows the lad is often keeping the company of the other men at this hour. 

She’s pleasantly surprised when she hears the familiar hammering. He looks up when she deliberately snaps a twig, and neither of them can help themselves breaking into smiles. 

“Is my…” He picks up a staff and hands it to her, and sinks back on his heels, pleased with himself as she gives it a spin, feeling its weight. She lets out a small grin, and he knows it’s what she wanted. “Oh, and I thought you might have the use for these.” 

He hands her three small dragonglass blades and a small leather sleeve where they’d fit, with a little buckle where it could fasten to her belt. “That Valyrian steel dagger of yours is too precious to throw. But these might be useful. I could make more, and find a different way for you to carry them, the sleeve…” 

He’s interrupted by a sharp flick that whizzes past his ear and lands just behind his station. “The weight is perfect. You should make some for yourself, you know, might just save your life when they come for you in the crypts,” she teases, but her eyes fall on the hammer that he is working on. 

“My work’s too good for the crypts, my lady.” 

\--

“You know what we could use? A good bath. There are far too many people in need of a wash, and too little tubs to go around.” Jaime matches her stride as they return to their chambers, and she shakes her head lightly. 

But Brienne can’t help but think about the bath they shared at Harrenhal, how she came to see him as  _ just Jaime _ . And her eyes give her away, because the one-handed knight grabs her arm and steps in front of her. “There are baths in this place that I’ve not been told about, aren’t there? I’m sure Tyrion has been slinking off somewhere.” 

She leads him to a smaller bathhouse in the same tower as the quarters where some of the people in Sansa’s command are residing. It’s darker than the ones that he’s seen so far, with smaller pools, but it was clearly made for guests and more discreet parties. He gleefully begins to remove his coat and layers, but they are too cumbersome for his one hand to navigate. 

“Give me a hand?” 

Brienne rolls her eyes, but helps him out of the clothing anyway. She averts her eyes as he undoes the laces of his breeches and starts to pull them down, and he laughs softly. “I’ve never had a knight help me undress,” he remarks, as he slips into the pool. It is warm, but someone has been in the water.  _ It’ll have to do.  _

She turns to leave, but he stops her. “The warm water will soothe your aches, I promise. And I’ll try not to look.” 

_ He wants to tell her that he wants to look, that he misses having her face closer to his, that he rode here to fight for her honour. That he’s never shared a bath with Cersei this way - no, she felt it would be too conspicuous, as though the screams from their chambers were not. No, because she did not like the water taking him away from her, she’d said when they were children. And he never suggested it again, because what she didn’t like it.  _

They don’t speak as they sit at opposite ends, but she got into the same pool as him after realising that the others were not warm. He chuckles, and she shoots him a look of annoyance. 

“Not the way you’ve thought you’d die, isn’t it. To be stabbed, trampled to death by something that’s already dead. Knights die in glory, in an open battle, by a better warrior, but it doesn’t make them less of honour. Ah, the fairytales.” 

“I always thought I’d go back after the wars were fought, after Renly claimed his crown, or after the Stark girls were safe.” 

“You’d spend your last days on Tarth.” “On the beach, maybe. Or in one of the small caves nearby. Taken by the light and the sea, to sail home with the Stranger.” 

“I’ve always wanted to die in the arms of the woman I love.” “Much too far away for that now, isn’t it.” 

He moves closer to her edge, meeting her blue eyes. “Not really.” 

She looks away, but lets out a bitter laugh - “Come on, Jaime. Why did you ride to Winterfell?” 

“So you might catch me if the wights take me down. And to die by my knight’s Oathkeeper is finer than most ways to go.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with the characterisations. Leave me a comment, if you think the Arya/Gendry bits should be explored further before the Long Night comes.


	4. Take Me By Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime sends another letter before battle, this time not in his own hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will be a short one - just some other characters to float in before we enter the battle. Cheers.

He examines her eyes, waiting for a response. Perhaps a snarl, he deserves it. But he didn’t spend the weeks riding in the cold just to die in a battle they cannot win. 

“I trust you with that, Brienne.” He picks up his own conversation, since she doesn’t seem to want to. “I trust you to be more of a warrior than that.”

She picks up her towel and stands up, wrapping the linen around her strapping figure. She doesn’t bother trying to hide her small bosom as she gets out of the bath, even though he’s staring unabashedly. But he’s not staring at her womanly figure - did she always have that freckle by her navel? He stares where her eyes were last, and wonders if they could be the last things he sees.  
\--  
Jaime’s shoulder plates are chipped following his journey, and his breastplate is dented in an unfortunate way after he crashed into a stake following a joust with one of the wildlings who wanted to take on the ‘King Killer’. 

He trudges to the armoury, where he sees Ser Davos talking to the blacksmith, a small boy with a solid build, and dark hair. 

“Ah, Ser Jaime. In need of some fixing, I see.” The Onion Knight is more jolly than most, and one of the Dragon Queen’s few men that have endeared themselves to the Northmen. “You’re in good hands. This is Gendry.” 

Robert’s bastard. “I’ll have those finished by the end of the day, Ser Jaime.” 

Ser Davos sees the recognition in his eyes, and leads him away from the armoury. “None finer with a blacksmith’s axe, and splendid weapons he’s making. Nearly didn’t make it here. Too many people have wanted the boy’s blood.” 

“Not your Dragon Queen, I hope.” “No, but yours did.” He gently hints at Jaime’s loyalties - knowing that while the older lion had ridden North to join his brother, the rumours have truth to them: his truth lies with his twin. “Well, we’ll have to keep his blood away from the dead then, don’t we.” 

They find themselves in the company of Tyrion at a small hall that evening - there is no ale or wine tonight for either of the knights, even though the Queen’s Hand continues to indulge. “If I’m going to die at the end of this night, I’d like to be rather drunk.” 

“Burn me at a stake when it’s over.” Ser Davos is quiet, staring into the fire, and the dwarf nods. “Not just dragonglass, then.”  
\--  
He keeps his statement true to Brienne - and even if she refuses to write to the Evenstar of Tarth, he will. But not in his hand - he is embarrassed to send Lord Selwyn his writing, even if he can barely picture the man in his head. 

“Brother, would you do me a favour?” “Which is?” “Write a letter to Lord Selwyn Tarth.”

Lord Selwyn - your daughter, Ser Brienne, is riding into battle with the Starks of Winterfell and the honourable men of the North against the Others. She may not return. But she is a fine fighter fitting of Tarth’s heir, and has earned the admiration of the knights and lords both with her skills with a Valyrian blade. Thank you for giving the Seven Kingdoms a great knight. 

“Ser Jaime Lannister?” Tyrion holds his quill over the paper, about to sign the short note.

“Just Jaime.”  
\--  
He lies in his cot that night, thinking of her sitting in the bath, her eyes less uncertain than they had been those years back in Harrenhal. More scars, scrapes than he remembered. Her frame was stronger, yet with more curves, where his stump would fit. 

He almost lulls to sleep, but he hears the horns sounding, and Tyrion shakes awake in a fit. Their eyes meet, but there’s no time for words.


	5. Nightfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the Long Night dawns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deaths ahead.

In absence of all the squires getting ready in the barracks, Tyrion helps him strap on his armour. The golden hand is the last embellishment. While it is heavy and cumbersome, he has learned to fight with it, throwing wild punches with a weight that the iron replacement one of the blacksmiths had cobbled together failed to replicate.  _ And they’ll pick me out easy when I fall.  _

Before they leave the room, he hands a small scroll to his brother, who is headed for the crypts. “If I don’t make it, this is for her.” “Can I read it?” “You’re going to read it during those long hours down in the crypts, so what does it matter?”

They laugh, but their eyes grow solemn as Jaime reaches down for an embrace. “Take care, brother.” “Come back alive, won’t you? This world is lonely without a friend.” “I’ll try. Be safe, we’ll need you after.” 

Jaime fastens his sword belt around his hip, and slides Widow’s Wail, which he sharpened himself the night before - a task no longer mindless and easy - into its scabbard. He doesn’t look back - he wants to remember Tyrion’s face happily drunk of the nights past, not the tired worry that he wears now.  _ If this is farewell, I’m glad to have had you as my best friend.  _

\--

Arya spots Gendry on the walls, and she’s almost relieved. “The little man’s good with a hammer, but can he kill?” The Hound stalks up behind her, taking his place behind the archers alongside Beric. They were to assess the fight, and join the men on the grounds, if needed, but the Unsullied were to hold the barriers while Drogon and Rhaegal cleared the field, and the Dothraki to charge on the second or third round of wights. There would be more, Jon had said. 

“He will have to.” Arya puts her hand on the handle of the Valyrian steel dagger that Bran had given her, securing it on her small belt, and runs her fingers on the little dragonglass nubbins that Gendry had given her. They’d be useful when the wights started coming up the walls, which seemed like an eventuality given what she’d heard about the dead. She had too many weapons strapped on - with Needle also taking its place on her hip - but there was a nagging feeling that she’d need them all. 

She looks to her left to see Beric mutter something to himself, before setting his sword on fire, and doing the same for Sandor Clegane.  _ The Lord of Light  _ \- and while she had not seen him do so before, she hides her surprise, if any. 

She walks over to where Gendry has stationed himself, near Ser Davos, who isn’t a good fighter by any means, but there’s a desperation in the way he wields his sword which she thinks might hold up against the army of the dead. “My lady,” he smiles at her, and holds his warhammer up to graze against the handle of Needle. To both of their surprise, she grips his forearm with a brief look of fear - but doesn’t say a word. 

_ He reminds her of Jon - not because of the dark hair, but their fearlessness in some sense, and how they’d both protected her when she was but a girl. Gendry was another brother she’d never share the Stark name with, but she hoped that he’d make it through the battle. His hammer better see him through.  _

\-- 

The first of the wights are spotted, as the horns sound again - this time twice, and the faint roars of the dragons ring out as Daenerys and Jon ride them above the open field where the dead approach. 

Ser Jorah had reasoned that while the Dothraki were formidable in an open field, the sheer numbers of the dead would outnumber them, however skilled the fighters were. The dragons were their best bet at evening out the numbers some, he said. And as with most things he said, the Targaryen queen had heeded. 

It’s not long before the fire rains down - and Jaime hears the most unpleasant screeching he’s ever heard in his life. It’s the sound of the wights burning, and their protest, if that is the way they can be described. He grips Widow’s Wail tighter in its sheath, and he sees Brienne get into her stance next to him. Her men have been assigned the wall facing the West, behind a brigade of Unsullied soldiers, and a small formation of Dothraki riders which are to ride from the side and enclose the wight army upon Ser Davos’ signal. 

Her armour shines blue in the night light, slightly illuminated by the fire as some of the traps they’ve set up in the open field are set alight by dragonflame. The Dothraki have been told to ride around the army, rather than to charge into them, to avoid falling into the trenches that have been dug and fitted with dragonglass spokes - there are simply too many dead to contend with, and the trenches are one of the small ways for them to hope for an evening of numbers. 

Podrick stands on the other end of their tight formation, to keep their men in shape when they eventually have to charge and support the Unsullied forces in front of them. Some of Brienne’s charges are wielding shields, and at the forefront of the formation, to keep the dead at bay while the second line go at them with their spears. It’s one of the ideas that Jaime and Brienne had thought of after watching the Unsullied in their formations - it would not be effective against enemies on horseback, as often in war, but fighting the dead was a completely different battle from what either of them had ever fought in, and neither of them thought it embarrassing to adopt the Unsullied’s formation, even if it was criticised by some of the Northern Houses. 

Jaime doesn’t draw his Valyrian blade just yet - he knows that it’ll be a while before they have to engage, which is a good thing. There is no sign of the dead having archers, which means the dragons would likely be their best chance in combat. 

Their army is massive, he breathes, loud enough only for his own ears. Hundreds of thousands, he guesses. The dragonflame has taken out many of them, but they seem to multiply before their eyes, unyielding. He hears a loud command, from one of the few Ironborn commanders, who has taken his place on top of the walls, directing the Northmen archers to light their arrows. With a sharp command, they release, lighting the remaining trenches that hadn’t caught the dragonfire. 

_ We’re gravely outnumbered, he realised. We should really be up on the walls. Everyone down here is going to get massacred, and he wanted to tell her it was so. But it was too late, he thought. There’s no way the entire formation would leave its post, and she would not leave a single man behind.  _ His mind has wandered for a bare moment, when he hears the familiar yell in an indiscernible language. 

The Unsullied raise their spears and shields, going into a lower stance with their legs firmly engaged and stooping slightly. Their shields are held so that they form a wall, like how they’ve trained  _ Ser Brienne’s formation  _ to do before the following waves are abound. There is a certain coldness to the way the Unsullied battle, as Jaime has witnessed in the field during practice. And with the chill that they have in their stance, he guesses that it was Grey Worm who had given a command.  _ This really is battle now.  _

And then he sees the waves of the dead. They barrel forward without direction or reason, climbing over each other, piling forward with a fierce hunger that reminds him of rabid dogs. But the Unsullied hold strong, keeping in their formations even as some of their men fall, closing the gaps with their shields, putting their bodies on the line. He glances up to Ser Davos, who is to give the sign for any movements in formations, and sees the Onion Knight motion for the archers to start their assault. It is meant as a reliever for the Unsullied, and to invite the dragons to continue their attacks, but there are too many wights. 

The trenches, once glowing with flames, are snuffed out as dozens of wights willingly lay on the fires, negating what they thought might be one of the best chances at evening the odds. The dragons and the archers try to relight the trenches, but the flame fails to catch, and they eventually shift their targets.

_ They can’t hold this for much longer, there’s no point in us standing here and waiting for the stampede.  _ Jaime looks at Brienne, and she’s biting her lip so hard it looks almost raw, but she stays in her stance, and continually motions for her men to do so as well.  _ We will be sending them to their graves like this.  _ He looks at Ser Davos once more, and shakes his head vigorously at the elder knight.  _ Give the sign, he wills.  _

He feels a sudden chill overhead - and he is not the only one as it seems like everyone has paused to look above. A ragged dragon, with blue flame spouting from its broken jaw, and only one good wing. There is hesitation from Drogon and Rhaegal, as they circle their fallen brother, not engaging. The bells start ringing, and Jaime hears the doors heave open. “Retreat, retreat!” He hears several Northern commanders yell at their men, and the Dothraki are the first to ride into the gates on either side of their main fortress, and the other Northern troops on horseback following. 

Jaime doesn’t hesitate - he grabs Brienne by the arm and turns towards the gates, shouting: “Retreat!” He shoves several young men in her formation, and they barrel towards the gates, but it is not the determination he was hoping for that meets his eyes, but that of fear and desolation.  _ It’s their first battle, and one they cannot win.  _ He almost feels sorry for the young men alongside them, but doesn’t let himself wallow in it as he almost drags Brienne away from the other soldiers under her who have frozen in their positions. 

She’s yelling at them relentlessly, but some of them have found themselves absorbed into the Unsullied formation, and she  _ gives up _ , following Jaime in their retreat behind the gates. It had been agreed upon - that once Viserion took the field, there was no point sacrificing all their forces on the ground, they were to retreat until the undead dragon could be diverted elsewhere. 

They make it behind the walls, and just in time as the wights seem to start overwhelming the Unsullied forces who have remained as their barrier. Men squeeze through the closing gates, and many unsaid goodbyes are exchanged as some chose to join the last fort, grabbing a shield as they head out. 

Brienne leans against one of the walls, her eyes wide and unblinking as she scans through the men around her, mentally checking off those under her command. But there’s no sign of her squire - and the panic is quickly apparent on her face.  _ Podrick, where is that damned lad?  _ She races up to the walls where the archers are stationed, and Jaime follows her, hoping they’d be able to find the lad from the vantage point. 

But the chubby squire’s cheerful expression is nowhere to be seen. She is near frantic, with a poor attempt to hide it. Jaime moves quickly towards Ser Davos. “Have you seen the squire, Podrick?” 

But the Dragon Queen’s advisor’s expression tells him all he needs to know - he looks towards the left side of the Unsullied formation, where the distinct red leather of Podrick’s sword belt stands out among the grey armour of the spear-wielding forces. The squire is injured, holding his shield in formation, but even from the distance Jaime can see that his legs have been hacked at mercilessly.  _ He’s not going to make it.  _ He looks to find Brienne, not knowing if it would really be best for her to see her charge’s last moments in battle, but he sees her gaze already on the boy. 

The anguish on her face is not one of a knight losing a prized squire - Jaime recognises the look.  _ Almost like Cersei’s pain when Joffrey contorted in his last breaths, the helplessness of a mother losing her firstborn - a pain that did not resonate with him then, but there’s an ache in him as he sees Podrick drop to his knees, and Unsullied soldiers closing the gap where he has fallen.  _

_ In the weeks of training the men he’d grown to appreciate the squire’s unchanging pleasant disposition, even as the nights grew longer and the hours of formation fighting extended. The boy never had a word of complaint. And he was always attentive to Brienne, fetching salve for her wounds; unyielding in her honour and shoving any Northern commander who dared question her abilities.  _

Jaime makes his way beside Brienne, now holding herself up against the wall where one archer is frantically shooting flaming arrows into the crowds. She lets herself collapse in his arms, as they can barely see Podrick now under the growing stampede. “I need to bring him in,” she mumbles, but her eyes are not seeing the chaos unfolding outside the walls. 

“No, Brienne. He’s gone, but he fought bravely. We can’t risk lifting the gates.”  _ He understands her need to protect the boy even in his last moments, but he knows the catastrophe that would ensue if they did. He wants to take this pain from Brienne - holding her as her body softens in her grief.  _ He leads her down the stairs and into a stairwell leading towards the chambers - there will be no resuming of formations for a few hours until further plans have been agreed on, given Viserion’s appearance.

They enter the first chamber they find, a small room with an unlit hearth and a single feather bed for one. She collapses onto the mattress in her armour, her hand unknowingly resting on her sword. “I failed him. I couldn’t protect him. He didn’t deserve this.” Her eyes are dark, and Jaime knows she’s seeing the flashes of Renly, Catelyn Stark coming back to her.  _ She had loved Podrick, as a younger brother, and she would have given her life to protect the boy if she could.  _

“He fought with your honour, your virtues and your strength, Brienne. He protected his men.” He holds her shaking hands in his, and she flinches slightly from the cold of his golden accessory. 

“Look at me, Brienne.” She sobs loudly, her head hung downwards, but Jaime kneels in front of her and forces her to look him in the eyes. “It’s not your fault, Brienne.”    


“I couldn’t save him, Jaime. I lost him.” “We can’t save everyone, or anyone at all. But you have to continue fighting, for all those men out there, and all the children in the crypts. For Podrick. You can still save them.” 

He takes her in his embrace, and she doesn’t push him away. He sweeps a tuft of her straw hair away from her eyes, where they have adhered with her tears -  _ is this the first time he’s seen her cry? In that moment Brienne wasn’t just the Warrior, not the Maiden, but the Mother - crying the tears of a woman who has lost a child, wishing for mercy on the child’s life and that she could have kept him safe. And in this moment Jaime wishes he could have been the Father to protect them both. _

Jaime kisses her lightly on the forehead, _which is salty with her sweat_  - and she doesn't push him away. Instead, she tightens her grip on Oathkeeper, and meets his eyes with a steely gaze more familiar to him. She gets up, and doesn't reject his hand to lead her back into the fray. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a bit of Arya/Gendry - to me this ship was never romantic, but she saw him as how she saw Jon as a child, a protective older brother who cared about her. I know there’s a lot of romantic connotations in their interactions, but Arya’s just too asexual for me to want her to be romantically interested in Gendry. 
> 
> Apologies for the lack of Dany/Jon writing - I’ve personally found it very difficult to come to grasp Jon's character, and I don’t think I’d be able to do him any justice.
> 
> Podrick had to be the first death I wrote here - I thought it was a miracle he survived, given his subpar skills, but plot armour is the best armour, isn't it? I've loved Brienne and Podrick's relationship, while it probably makes more sense as a brother/sister love given their ages, but I thought the show has given us some very nice scenes where it feels like Brienne's his guardian or mother. 
> 
> I’ve played with the characterisations again, but hope you’ve enjoyed this. Thanks for the support!


	6. Daybreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How much fight can men have against an army that does not tire?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another battle-driven chapter, apologies for not doing the scale of it justice, but I decided that focussing on certain areas was a lot more feasible than a broad panning across the angles.

Brienne emerges into the tangle of forces with all her composure, but is quickly interrupted by a squire calling for her. “Ser Brienne! Lord Snow and the other commanders are waiting for you.” 

Jaime follows her as they enter a small hall, where Jon, Ser Davos, Tormund and the commanders of several Northern Houses, are looking at a map of Winterfell. Theon and another Ironborn commander are standing further back, but he can see their hands have been rubbed raw from holding their bows.  _ How many more arrows do we even have?  _

“Ser Brienne, Ser Jaime,” Jon acknowledges their presence, and turns his attention back to Ser Davos. “How many men did you say arrived at the gates?” 

“At least fifty. Lord Hornwood has spoken with them, they are bastards of no House, some of them are blacksmiths and they have come with shields ready to battle. We could use them, any men.” 

“Have them equipped with swords and shields if needed, they will join the men of House Mormont. The Queen’s dragons will clear the field afterwards, with all the archers as well. When Ser Davos gives the command later, the gates will be opened, and the rest of the Unsullied will head out, with the Dothraki coming from both sides. The freefolk and the rest of the men should fight from the walls, relieve each other, and have some shields by the archers. We will not engage them on the field. The Dothraki will go in rounds.” Jon pauses, and looks at Theon. “I will go with the Ironborn and fifty of the Unsullied to the Godswood, where Bran is.” 

The Northern commanders nod solemnly, and Brienne looks at the embattled former Night’s Watch Lord Commander in recognition, before retreating out of the hall, leaving Ser Davos alone with the young man. 

\--

Tormund trails behind Brienne and Jaime as they head to give their men instructions, and she feels a sudden roughness at the back of her neck as his beard grazes it. She spins around with a glare on her face, and is surprised to see the usually jolly wildling with a serious look. 

But he doesn’t speak, instead grabbing her hand and kissing it with a gentleness she had never seen from the ginger-haired beast. Before she can reply, he turns and walks towards where some of the freefolk have gathered, and some of the men who she has seen him drinking with nod at her with a quiet understanding,  _ as though she is their queen-to-be, Jaime thinks. He feels a tinge of anger that she did not reject his ‘gentlemanly’ gesture, but it is no time for such thoughts.  _

He sees the wildlings trudge up the steps to stand alongside the archers on the walls - they are to protect the bowmen, and to launch the catapults which will be set aflame. Tormund had insisted that the freefolk take the first watch, on the basis that “they knew the dead better than any soldier of the South”, and none of the commanders could disagree. 

But the onslaught began, before all of them had come into position. The dead had broke through the Unsullied wall, despite the dragons’ attempts at massacre, and the catapults would have to be their next best resort as the archers became increasingly overwhelmed by those climbing up the fortress’ walls. 

Brienne hurries to give instructions to the young soldiers in her vanguard, but Jaime stands at the base of one of the stairs, observing how the wights were climbing over and onto the wildlings. Catapults were shot, set aflame but the relentless archers, but he knows they will tire. There were not many archers among the Northern armies, but the Ironbron’s forces were a welcome addition. Now that most of them were in the Godswood, it would not be long before they were out of fresh bowmen. 

The gates start pounding, and from the frantic looks of some of the young squires shuttling arrows to the tops of the walls, Jaime guesses that the dead are literally at their door. He shouts at Brienne, but his voice is drowned out but the flurry of commanders trying to brace for the onslaught. Two groups of fighters are sent up to reinforce the wildling forces, which have dwindled quickly, but Jaime sees the ginger-haired leader valiantly hacking at any wight that comes within range. 

He draws Widow’s Wail, knowing that the time to battle has come. 

\-- 

It isn’t long before Jaime finds himself atop the walls with Brienne on his right, as she had given her word. Their inexperienced soldiers are holding their own against the waves of wights, but there are few wildlings that remain next to the archers, and the heap of dead bodies are only mounting, more of them clothed in leather and armour than they would have wished. He knows there are several Houses’ forces who are not due to take the shift, but they are running out of warm bodies to hold the walls. 

A giant was felled, struck in the eye by the Mormonts’ young Lady Lyanna, who now lay on the giant’s body in the middle of the yard. She lay rumpled, her skull crushed by the hand of the dead monster. 

A White Walker, which had ridden through the gates and taken more than twenty men down easily, was stabbed to death by a dark-haired wildling girl, who had given her life in her attempt. 

There was no time to mourn loved ones or comrades. Squires hauled dead bodies out of the way and started to set them on fire on Ser Davos’ command, knowing that they could be reanimated at any time. 

Jaime slashes and hacks through the wights that continually appear at the walls, climbing over each other despite the flaming stakes that the soldiers hurl down. One of their fire sources was snuffed out by a White Walker’s touch, and despite their best attempts it could not be relit. 

He glances over at Brienne from time to time, saving her from several skeletons which were nipping at her legs, and each of her growls are comforts to his ears. 

Suddenly, they hear a piercing screech, as the wight dragon’s blue flame sputters in the sky, falling to the ground as it is engulfed by the relentless fire from its two living brothers. There is a brief cheer from the men on the walls -  _ surely if the undead dragon was taken out, it was a sign that they could have a chance at this war.  _ But Jaime did not have time to let himself hope, as he saw the long white hair of a Walker ride into the gates, this time barely met with resistance. The soldiers in the yard had been distracted by Viserion. Before he has time to react, he hears a familiar chortle as Tormund launches himself at the White Walker, thrusting three dragonglass spears in its direction as he does so. One hits its horse, but the other two are parried away.

_ It has no expression but anger, the thought flashes across Jaime’s mind as he bats away wights subconsciously.  _ The wildling tries to knock the ice blade out of the White Walker’s hands, but his valiant attempt is rebuffed as the blade impales the freefolk leader. 

Jaime and Brienne exchange a look of despair as Tormund crumples against the weapon, all the life in him draining quicker than they had seen from their other fallen comrades. But before either of them can engage the rider, it shatters. An Ironborn archer, standing where Tormund had jumped from, has a grim look in his eyes, but the bittersweet smile at the edges of his mouth said it all. 

_ But revenge and loss have the same lifespan in war, as Jaime knows. There is no time for mourning the dead, nor is there time to celebrate the little triumphs.  _ He sees Brienne say a short prayer for her fallen admirer,  _ and he lets himself wonder if he would have done the same. The wildling has more courage than I could ever wield. He would have been worthy of her.   _

\-- 

Down in the crypts, Tyrion paces with a goblet in his hands, despite the disapproving gaze of many of the women. They are huddled with their children, with blankets to keep them warm in the underground tunnels, but there is a fragility in their safety. Hardy the doors of the crypts may be, but one single wight breaking in could easily be the end of them all. They would stand no chance, with few weapons between them. His axe sits next to Varys, but the eunuch’s only mode of battle had only been his words. 

He clinks his goblet with a gold ring, and is pleased when most of the people gathered in the crypts do not meet his gaze with blatant hatred. 

“I know many of us have loved ones out there. Husbands, sons, brothers, fathers. Mothers, sisters even. And they are fighting an army that does not rest. An army that does not die. One that needs no food nor water. 

But I think we’ll survive to see the end of this Long Night. Men for centuries have beaten the dead, the Walkers. The Wall may have fallen, but Winterfell will hold. And we will see daylight.” 

\-- 

Brienne’s grunts and yells grow softer, and the bodies around her fall less rapidly.  _ She’s starting to tire, Jaime knows, but the wights keep coming.  _ He sees a wound on her leg, and she’s losing blood - not enough to be a concern, but he sees her growing weakness, the loss of belief setting in despite the steeliness in her eyes. 

He feels his own strength falter, his blows are less accurate, just bluntly skating on his Valyrian blade to hit those that are within range. But he adjusts his grip on Widow’s Wail, knowing that if he were to break down, she would have no one on her left. Most of their men have fallen. He stopped counting after twenty, there was no point.  _ I hope she has stopped counting too. There are too many names, too many faces. Too many families have lost their lines tonight.  _

“Brienne,” he calls to her. And her blue eyes meet his gaze, softer than they were at the start of the battle.  _ She almost looks like she’s giving up.  _ He gestures to one of the Northern commanders in position to take over, and takes her by the wrist as they retreat into a stairwell. 

If it had been two hours ago she would have  _ fought him  _ on it. But she is weary, from the endless battle and the loss of all the young men she had trained in the last few weeks.  _ And she’s still thinking about Podrick.  _

“I saw Tormund. How that blade just went through him.” 

_ He knows it’s no use to tell her that she can’t dwell on those that have fallen, or how they have been killed. The despair would break any warrior, and she has more empathy than most knights.  _

There are no words he has to comfort her, to ease the loss that they both have had thrust into their faces. But he kisses her - this time on the lips -  _ this is the only comfort I can offer, the promise of an after  _ \- and he’s surprised when she meets his warm lips with an obliging tongue.  _ It feels like a promise to trust him.  _

“We have to go back out there, Jaime. Not on the walls, but near the gates.” “I trust you, Ser.”  

\-- 

She’s right. The wights climbing the walls have slowed as the detractors on the ground have fallen, and despite the lone circling dragon raining dragonflame, there is still a steady stream of wights breaching the gates. They have done a decent job of killing those who have broken into Winterfell’s walls, but many of their men have fallen. 

And then Jaime sees two White Walkers ride in atop horses that have barely any meat on them. Each wielding one of those ice blades that had simply  _ glided through Tormund.  _ He doesn’t have to exchange a look with Brienne to know what she will do. They move towards the one without a beard, as they hear a flurry of commands in the direction of the other. 

They break into a familiar dance - a choreography they seem to have committed to mind in their nights of practice. But this time it is not straw men they face, but a Walker with a blade that makes Valyrian steel dull in comparison. He snarls as he wields Widow’s Wail, quickly disarming the wight horse as the Walker swings towards Brienne. But she parries his blade with Oathkeeper - and Jaime is almost relieved to notice that while the Walkers are quick and swift in their movements, they do not wield the blades with power.  _ Perhaps that is our chance _ . 

They take turns trading blows with the Walker, but there is little movement from the wight leader, who simply glides his blade through the air without much effort. Suddenly, it lunges towards Brienne, and she falls backwards, with Oathkeeper still in hand. Jaime dives towards her, anticipating another stab from the Walker, but before he can attack it, he sees it shatter just as its blade pierces the shoulder of one of their comrades. 

_ She is safe.  _

Just as the White Walker fades, the other shatters as well - and wights in front of them crumple into heaps around them.  _ What is going on?  _ Jaime looks around and tries to make sense of it, but the few men that remain around him seem equally at a loss. 

“No!” His confusion is interrupted by Brienne’s shout, and he turns to see who was the man who had killed the White Walker. He had held a dragonglass blade, which must have hit the White Walker as it had struck him with its ice blade. But Jaime doesn’t have to turn the man over to understand Brienne’s reaction - the man’s sparse hair was unmistakably that of Ser Davos. 

_ He saved her. He saved us.  _

The danger around them seemed to have calmed. Rhaegal was no longer circling overhead, and Jaime could make out its shape outside the gates amidst the clearing fog. Its breathing was heaving and laboured, but there was no sign of the Dragon’s Queen other child. 

He moves over to Brienne, who is not sobbing this time - but she sinks back onto her heels with a defeated look. “I didn’t deserve it.”  _ You deserve all of it.  _ She puts her hands over Ser Davos’ eyes, and closes them, taking the dragonglass blade out of his hands. The wound on his shoulder bleeds profusely, but there’s no mistaking the sacrifice that he had made. There is no bringing him back. 

Oathkeeper lies on the ground next to her, and unlike the blood that would be on it after a battle like they one they were in, it is covered with ash. Jaime picks it up and wipes it clean, putting it into her hands. “You still wield this sword by the Gods’ mercies. They have deemed you deserving of life, Ser Brienne.” 

He sheathes Widow’s Wail in his belt, and as Brienne stands up slowly, he picks up Ser Davos’ body. The man had wanted to be burned at a stake upon his death. In one of their conversations in the early mornings, the elder knight had told Jaime of how Stannis Baratheon had burned his daughter in sacrifice to the Lord of Light - and how that little child had been the compass of goodness for him. “She had no fear, and only had love for the people. She would have been a good queen one day, a kind and just one, if Stannis had ever succeeded in taking the throne.” He had asked to be burned as she had been against all pleading.  _ And this is the last thing I can do for a man who has saved Brienne’s life and my own, Jaime thinks.  _ He sets the Onion Knight’s body against a stake, and secures his arms loosely against the wood with a stray rope. He hears Brienne’s footsteps behind him, and her voice is quiet. “May I?” 

She has a torch in her hand, and Jaime nods. 

_ Goodbye.  _

\-- 

They eventually hear that the battle was abruptly ended when Jon Snow and Arya Stark had battled the Night King, after Theon had been struck mercilessly with his own arrow. How Beric Dondarion had fought off a White Walker for Arya to deliver the killing blow with her Valyrian steel dagger. This time, there was no Thoros to bring him back. The Queen’s trusted knight, Ser Jorah, died defending her after Drogon had been injured, and no maester had the heart to coax her desperation for him to be saved. 

\--

It felt wrong to be sitting in a warm bath awaiting daylight when so many of their friends and comrades had fallen in battle. But Jaime found himself convincing Brienne that it was what she needed, and she let him lead her into the same bathhouse they had been in previously. 

This time, they each undress themselves, shaking off the dirt and ash from their armour and clothing. Jaime examines himself in the bath - he has some deep cuts that stung when he stepped into the warm water, but nothing that won’t heal by itself. There is a particularly nasty gash near his stump, which he guesses will leave another scar, but it won’t need sewing up. 

He glances over at Brienne, who simply stares into the distance.  _ I can’t believe we’re both alive.  _ He wants to be closer to her, hold her, and tell her that. But he knows that all she is seeing right now is the number of dead bodies that had fallen in front of her -  _ Podrick, Ser Davos, Tormund, Lady Lyanna Mormont _ ,  _ and so many more. These had been friends, not just soldiers.  _

He remembers the first time he saw death in battle. He had been afraid to show fear, as one of the youngest on the field - he knew any sign of weakness would make him less worthy of being a knight.  _ But weakness isn’t unbecoming of a knight - the lack of empathy for your fallen comrades is the shame of the honour. _

_ He wants to take away the pain that she feels, to erase the loss that must be overwhelming her right now. But perhaps what she needs most isn't some self-absorbed knight telling her what she needs, but someone to trust that she will be alright, and someone to assure her that she saved everyone that she could.  _

“Thank you.” Brienne’s voice is softer than it usually is, but he knows it’s for pulling her out of battle when her head wasn’t in it. 

“Thank you for trusting me.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I did these deaths justice. It always feels weird writing characters out, but for me Ser Davos was a character that is so closely linked with fire, it felt right that this would be how he would go. 
> 
> I promise the next chapter will be a bit softer after these battle-laden ones.
> 
> I wonder if I wrote Brienne too OOC, but I felt that for someone like her who hasn't had all that much experience in battle, there would be shock with the loss of people under her command. I wanted Jaime to be her rock. 
> 
> Also, I felt that trust was a nice way for them to convey their care for each other. Enjoy, leave me a note. Might be a couple days before the next bit.


	7. Picking Up The Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle is won, but it doesn’t feel so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favourite scenes filmed this season was the goodbye to Theon, Jorah, and the pyres set alight. Some post-battle feels, some goodbyes. I thought I'd only get this up after the finale, but fingers crossed means writing your hope into words, so, here it is.

“It never seems like this many when you’re in the thick of it.” Jaime looks wistfully at the pyres set up outside the gates of Winterfell, on the very field that the wights had trudged across. Next to him, Tyrion holds his hands together, nary a scratch on him. The women and children in the crypts were untouched, save for a few with frostbite. They’d grossly underestimated how cold it would be in there, even with the torches they had lit. 

After their breakfast this morning - when daylight arrived much quicker than they had become accustomed to - Jaime had walked alongside Brienne as she insisted on helping to count the fallen.  _ She wanted to make sure she gave Pod a proper goodbye.  _ He stopped counting after the first hundred, stopped remembering the names of the Houses that would cease to be, even if he knew they were the last memories of these men who had given their lives to save the living. He was never good at picking up the pieces after battles. 

_ The golden lion would ride home, savouring the triumph of battle, not caring about who were the men they lost so long as the number of men they lost were within their calculations. Most times he would celebrate the night after the fighting was over, with the finest wines and meat in the nearest towns, and a feast back home. Rarely had he stopped to consider the lives lost.  _

_ But this time it was different.  _

_ Jaime wants to be able to face each man and thank them for their sacrifice, remember the valiant deeds they did in their last hours. But he can’t bring himself to - he wonders if things would have been different had he brought the Lannister forces with him. Or would it simply be more blood on his hands?  _ He subconsciously straightens the limbs of some of the soldiers he had fought alongside, most of their bodies a tangle of wounds and broken bones. He notices that Brienne’s face is red, but she is holding back her tears.  _ Until she sees Podrick.  _

He lay at the head of one of the pyres, next to the young man that Jaime had sparred with shortly after arriving at Winterfell.  _ He never got to share his name.  _

“Who’s that next to Podrick?” He asks Gendry discreetly, knowing that the the boy had been friendly with the blacksmith. 

“Brod Flint. His brother Robin served Robb Stark, he said.”  _ Robin Flint had been one of the Stark boy’s guards, killed by the Freys at the Red Wedding, he recalled. At least now I know the lad’s name.  _

Brienne stands next to Podrick’s still body, her face steeled, but Jaime can feel the pain radiating from her. She reaches into her boot, and pulls out a small dagger. “I told him that when he was ready, I’d give him this blade - he said once how it was perfectly balanced, how it was the best thing for skinning rabbits, and..” Her voice trails off - and he knows she’s drifting into the days where they were riding North and looking for Arya and Sansa, when Podrick became a better squire and one of her dearest friends. Jaime slips his hand into hers, and squeezes it lightly. “He’d have been delighted to have it.” Brienne tucks the dagger, which has a simple wooden handle, but immaculately taken care of and well-carved, into Podrick’s belt.  _ Goodbye, Podrick.  _

She embraces the boy and says a silent prayer as her head bows over his body, taking one last good look at her squire.  _ He wasn’t the best fighter, didn’t have the quickest of wits, was often unobservant of their surroundings and prone to tripping. But he was good-hearted, had a willingness to learn, and never sulked despite the relentless training she had him undergo, Brienne thought. He reminded her of the little brother she would have loved to have growing up. And maybe she did get to see Podrick grow up, mature, into a fine young man. Maybe that was something she did get to do for him.  _

_Jaime remembers one thing that Podrick told him in one of their conversations, without Brienne. But their talks always came back to her. “My Lady said nothing’s more hateful than failing to protect the ones you love.”_ And he had stared at Jaime, with that knowing earnest look in his eyes, almost willing him to confess that _he_ _loved her_. But Jaime doesn’t know what _love_ means to her, what she wants it to be, and he thinks _it’ll be presumptuous of me to think that care for her means I love her. But I’ll protect her now, Podrick._

\--

The goodbyes are long - many have lost their closest family, friends, allies, comrades - and the number of pyres are staggering. They lost more than two-thirds of their forces, and nearly all of the Unsullied who had held their ground outside the gates valiantly. 

_ And many more will be lost when the Dragon Queen marches South.  _

Jaime looks at the Targaryen girl, whose head is bowed in front of Ser Jorah. He had been her most trusted advisor, he’d heard from Tyrion, and it was the exiled knight that had been her closest friend as well. 

_ He wonders if he was ever that for Cersei. And if news of his death ever got to her, if she would feel the same.  _

\-- 

He finds himself becoming  _ Brienne’s bodyguard _ , following her as she escorts Sansa around Winterfell, sitting in on some of the Lady of Winterfell’s meetings with the Northern houses. Some of them express their wish to go home with their families now that the fight against the dead is over, and no one can blame them.  _ They’ve already lost enough for a lifetime of battles.  _

But the decision, alas, is not for the Lady of Winterfell to make, but one that the Warden of the North has put in the hands of a hungry Queen looking to take her throne. Jaime recognises the chill in her eyes - it reminds him of Cersei when she was younger, when she told Jaime as a child, that she wanted to be Queen, and her children to be princes and princesses. Daenerys is more muted, but there is a callousness in the way she speaks about the armies that unsettles him.

He sees Northern lord after Northern lord leave the halls disappointed, left with no choice but to prepare their men for another battle. Many of them are patched up by the maesters, but their supplies are low and they have no rest to spare. 

Jaime keeps his head down and mouth shut in these meetings, however frustrated he feels when Sansa is unable to accede to their requests to let their men return home.  _ It is not my place, and I should be glad that I’m still alive, he tells himself, as he bites his tongue over and over. This battle will not be mine. _

\-- 

“What are your plans now that…” Jaime looks at Brienne as they take a breather after a long sparring session, which has quickly become a routine of theirs. They have not fought with their Valyrian blades since the battle, but there is much comfort they both take from playing with the blunted practice swords. 

“My plans are what my Lady wishes. Lady Sansa has said she will remain in Winterfell, and my place is by her side.” 

Jon Snow will inevitably leave for King’s Landing, even if he is trying his best to delay their movements, citing the need to collect more food and rations for their journey. Arya and the Hound left shortly after the battle, with Clegane wielding a new sword forged by Gendry. Jaime knows they must have gone for the Mountain,  _ and Cersei _ . But it is not his place to stop them, not anymore.  _ My place is by her _ . 

He hardly leaves Brienne’s side these days, shadowing her to meals, sparring with her, and sitting with her in her chambers until she urges him to leave. And she slowly opens up to him more, about her father back home in Tarth, and how the waters are blue, and how she misses the beach. 

“Have you thought about going home?” 

“My home is here now. I swore an oath - to protect Lady Sansa, and I intend to keep it.” 

“Your father, he’s old, isn’t he? Surely he’d love to see you as a knight, even if just for a short while.” “He doesn’t know I’m a knight.”

“I wrote him, before the battle.” “You… what?” 

She looks at him intently, but her face is not one of anger. Confusion spreads across her eyes, almost questioning his intentions.  _But the only thought that flashes to him is how Lord Selwyn did not write back, and he wonders, if he need write again._

“You didn’t want to tell him about the war. No father should have to know about his heroic child’s conquests only after they’re gone, not after they let their only child wander into battle. It… wouldn’t be fair.” “He… would have understood,” Brienne starts to retort, but she withdraws, knowing Jaime’s right. 

“It isn’t quite time to go back to Tarth,” she says. “Why not? Lady Sansa’s safe here now, she has the Knights of the Vale.” 

“The war, it’s not over. Things can still change.” 

“Will this change?” Jaime moves his chair closer to her, sitting next to her as they face the hearth, staring into the flickering fire. “There’s no  _ this _ , Jaime. You’re free to join them when they leave for King’s Landing, you know that.” 

“Well, I very much fancy having Tyrion’s chambers to myself when he leaves. The cot’s tiny, and not very comfortable. Unlike,” he pauses, looking behind him to eye her large feather bed. “Yours.”

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“I am, aren’t I?” He stands up, and removes his gold hand, takes off his sword belt, and sets his coat on the chair. “If this is where you’ll be, it’s where I’ll be too. I’m yours to command now, Ser Brienne. I told you,  _ I trust you. _ ”

“I don’t need you to trust me, Jaime. You have a duty.”  _ To the Seven Kingdoms is implied. She means for me to join the Targaryen Queen’s forces, to march South, and take heed from my brother, to fight alongside men meaning to kill my sister.  _

“But I  _ want to _ . I'd like to stay by your side, if you'll have me. If that's here in Winterfell, or Tarth, so you choose. But you can't make me leave, and I'm not going to.”

His mention of her home startles her. “What would you do in Tarth, Jaime? It's a small island, it's beautiful, and it's my home - but there's nothing there for someone like you.”

“I'd… like your home to be mine too, my lady.”

\--

Brienne pretends he never said most of those things. But she does hold him to his word on some parts - he is tasked to train the young soldiers who will stay in Winterfell, to help keep track of the food that they have in the stores. On the rare occasion, he becomes a caretaker for some of the smaller children. He doesn't complain. 

He sees how she is gentle with children, how she chides those who are misbehaving, and praises those who are polite. Maybe one day she'd make a good Mother, he thinks. _Jaime_ _  sees a lot in her that Cersei never had, but it doesn't stop him from thinking about Cersei anyway.  _

_ He thinks about their unborn child - even if he has doubts whether the child was real, he wonders if she would surrender to Daenerys if faced with the two dragons, whether she still parades the hideous beast the Mountain has become as her champion. If she thinks about him, and the children he had sired. Or whether they have all been wiped out by her desire to hold on to the Iron Throne.  _

And when he looks at Brienne sometimes, he knows she's thinking about him differently from the past. He hopes she sees the changes, how she's changed him. Made him more gentle, more forgiving, more humble, less quick to anger. 

She doesn’t push him away when he holds her hand sometimes - as though it is a normal thing for friends to do, and that’s what they are, maybe - friends. He hugs her when she finds a note that Podrick had written for his family which he never sent out. She doesn’t push him away then either. She doesn’t chase him out of her chambers when she cries sometimes, when there is a reminder of the war that they survived instead of  _ them.  _ She doesn’t tell him to shut up when he tells her she was saved for a reason. 

Yet she doesn’t listen to him when he tries to tell her that  _ he wants her to be his home _ . Or when he suggests that they both go to Tarth to pay her father a visit. She knocks him to the ground when he tells her that he is going to ask Sansa for a leave of absence in her name. 

But she also helps him cut his food when they come in slabs, and undoes his breeches when his fingers are too stiff and cold. One night she washes his hair for him because he has an awful gash on his good hand after a good sparring session, and doesn’t complain when he mumbles for her to scrub his back as well. 

When the armies leave for the South, Tyrion’s chambers become his. 

But the servants know well enough to bring his breakfast with hers when they knock on her door in the morning. He sleeps in her chambers most nights, having shifted his cot to her quarters. He wakes her up when she screams during the worst of the night terrors, holds her and reminds her that they are not fighting the war, that  _ it was just a dream _ . Kisses her forehead when it’s sweaty from fear, or when she mumbles for him in her sleep. “Jaime,” it always is, save for that one time when she yells: “The Kingslayer!” 

He always wakes up to find himself perfectly tucked in, even though he knows he’s an awful, restless sleeper. And the hearth is always warm, even though he’s not diligent enough to keep it going. His clothes are always laid out clean for the next morning, even though Jaime always  _ always  _ throws it against the desk. 

They both pretend they don’t see the knowing looks that the servants exchange when they enter the dining hall together, or when they spar late into the evenings under the dark sky, or when they return from one of their long walks into the Godswood. No one in the North dares mutter even the hint of “The Kingslayer’s Whore”, no, Lady Sansa would have their hands for that. 

_ But he wonders how her lips would taste. How her hands would feel holding him tenderly, not to hold him up, but to just stay there. And with each passing day, he feels himself gathering the courage to ask her.  _

_ But not today. Not yet. _

_ He thinks he’s finally knowing what love means to Brienne - and he hopes he’s getting closer at becoming the person she’d be proud to call hers, but right now, he is just the one-handed Lannister happy to trail behind the Maid of Tarth.  _ Some of his restless days translate into terrifying nights - he dreams of her sprawled on her mattress with a knife in her side, lifeless, lifeless eyes. He dreams of her not being around wherever he searches, and not  _ there  _ even when he sails to Tarth.  _ Gone. _

_ And there’s one dream which seems to recur more than the others.  _

_ He is on a horse back to King’s Landing, and he hears her grunting at her steed, catching up to him. He has Widow’s Wail, but she has Oathkeeper, and every blow he tries to deliver is met evenly by her parry. But she wrenches his gold hand from him, and brings him to his knees - his horse runs to hers. “I’m sorry, Jaime,” she says, before plunging her blade - it’s always been hers’ - into his belly, and leaves it there for just a second too long before pulling it out slowly. “I don’t love you anymore.”  _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Compared to the other chapters, this one is probably a bit more slow-moving, but I really enjoyed writing this one. Let me know if this style flows.


	8. Goodbye, not Farewells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is the difference between goodbye and a farewell, if return is but a pipe dream?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To part is pain.

“They’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t they?” He lies in his cot, looking at the ceiling. She pokes her head to the side to look at him, the hearth glowing softly behind him. It’s warmer with Jaime in her quarters, but she’s gotten used to not kicking him when she gets up a good half-hour before he does each morning. 

“Why are you asking me something you’ve already heard concrete plans about.” She narrows her eyebrows at him, but her tone is not as dismissive as her words.

He gets up, and walks towards her bed, looking down at the covers - it is his way of asking for permission. Brienne lifts the covers, an invitation - it is not the first time he is lying in her bed, not the first time he has lay beside her as they chat. But these are reserved for the special ones. 

Like the time when she told him about how Galladon drowned in the seas - the same seas around Tarth which she had always known to calm, blue and comforting. But the same swell had taken her brother when she was just eight, and her father never let her by the waters past dusk again. 

Or the time he told her about swearing his oaths as a member of the Kingsguard - it should have been the finest moment of his life. But all he could have thought of was how he was escaping from the lordship of Casterly Rock, and wondering if leaving Tyrion behind was damning his younger brother to a lifetime of disdain. Joining the Kingsguard had never quite been his plan, he was content to be a knight, one of the finest in tournaments alike, but it was Cersei’s idea, to keep him always by her side. And he had happily agreed, because  _ everything she desired was everything he wanted too.  _

“You don’t want her to die.” Brienne says it matter-of-factly, her hand resting lightly on Jaime’s stump. She’s seen him standing a little too closely when Daenerys listens to her advisers brief her on their plans when they reach King’s Landing, and the worry in his brows. There is a little more grey in his hair and a lot less gold than when she first met him, and this is no longer the sharp-tongued, jesting Jaime that she had gotten as a prisoner. No, this Jaime is quieter, more humble, warmer. Less of a golden lion and more of a tamed beast, he often murmurs, when it’s just the two of them looking at the stars overhead. 

“I do not.” “You have to save her, then."

“That… is treason. I’ve sworn an oath to Sansa, and by extension to the Warden of the North and Queen Daenerys.” “Come on, Jaime, you know that’s all nonsense. Look at me.” 

He flips on her side, to meet her staring blue eyes -  _ he wants to hold her and tell her he’s sorry. That despite all his best attempts he still worries - about his sister, about his former lover, and even if he doesn’t want to bed her anymore he still cares about her, wants her to be happy, wants her to be safe. That he still wishes to protect her, even if the only person he could wish to protect her from is the monster of herself she has created.  _

“I’m looking, I’m looking, and all I see is Ser Brienne of Tarth.” He smiles weakly, but he knows she sees past all of his lies. 

“You should go with them. Tyrion, Lord Snow, the Queen, them all. And get to her before they do.” “I should, shouldn’t I?” His eyes hold a sad tiredness in them, she knows he is  _ weary of war _ . “You don’t have to fight, Jaime. You can make it that no one has to fight another battle. There could be no more wars.” She holds his face gently in her large hands, he feels the calluses against his jawbones, but her fingertips are tender.  _ I don’t want to leave.  _

_ But he knows she’s right.  _ “I still love her.” “I know.” “Not in the same way, no.” “You’re just talking, Jaime, but your heart is still with her.” 

“No.” He sits upright in  _ her  _ bed, and there is a snarl buried in the glow of his eyes. “I don’t want to bed her, Brienne. I know what you’re thinking, that I just came here to escape, and now I want to go back into her chambers. No.

“But I need to stop her from this madness she’s set loose upon herself.” 

That night, she doesn’t insist that he returns to his cot to sleep. Neither of them sleep very much. They talk a little, about the days of summer that seem far away from Winterfell, of being young children playing with swords, thinking that the greatest thing in life was to be a knight in shining armour, to save the babes and maidens of the earth. How wrong they both had been, they laugh, but the joyful peals are more bitter than sweet.  _ Is this goodbye, he thinks, as he looks at his eyes in hers - he knows that he’d miss this. For her warmth to be his too, to laugh and forget all the pain of the day, living in the days they had shared before they had known, and the dreams they had fulfilled on each other’s behalf. He had wanted to be brave as a boy, she had wanted to be a knight.  _

That night, Jaime’s right stump is under her shoulder as Brienne’s head leans against his shoulder. Neither of them drift off to slumber for long before the other interrupts the silence, not wanting the night to end. They talk about trust, as though trust is the only thing that matters in the world.  _ Maybe it is, Jaime thinks, as he tries to remember the very exact way she says it. With a sharp end to the note, revering the sound as it fades from her lips.  _

_ I want to remember every part of her. If this should be goodbye. _

\--

She helps him prepare his horse before he sets off to ride alongside Gendry, who has decided that he would be of some use repairing weapons for the soldiers. It reminds her of Podrick, how the squire would diligently feed her horse and make sure it was comfortable before they set off on the ride each day. 

Brienne has picked one of the steeds that she has often ridden herself - a good-natured chestnut that is not as large as most of the Northern soldiers’ choice, but a quicker and more even ride that would probably suit the journey to King’s Landing better. 

She doesn’t ask him what he’ll do  _ after.  _ Almost like it’s bad luck.

He doesn’t tell her about wanting to visit Tarth when  _ it’s all over.  _ Like it’ll be bad luck. 

But he hugs her for a long while before he gets on his horse, and she doesn’t push him away, doesn’t chide him, doesn’t look upset about it. Instead, she smiles, really smiles, and looks happy for him. “Be safe, Jaime.” “I’ll try my best.” He hands her two small envelopes, one with a blue seal, and another red. “Open them tomorrow, anytime.” 

“I will.” 

\--

She opens the one with a blue seal that night, and recognises her father’s neat scrawl. 

_ My dear child -  _

_ I hope you are safe and well. I received news from Westeros that the Starks, that the men in the North won the war against the Others, and that Ser Brienne of Tarth was among the living. I am proud of you, my child. Tarth is quiet without you, but our port grows busier with each passing day, people are leaving the mainland and seeking a home on our island. I hope to see you soon. _

Brienne holds it up and takes a long, deep whiff - it smells a little of the sea, but she knows she’s really just imagining the smell of home, the splash of seafoam against her favourite beaches and caves, the nooks and crannies of the island where she used to run away to when she didn’t want to be reminded that she was  _ ugly  _ and  _ not good enough  _ for a betrothal. 

She remembers her father taking her in his arms after the last broke. When he gave her his blessing to join Renly’s troops in war, how he had given her a suit of armour and her sword, told her that  _ he’d always be proud of her, but that Tarth would always be home, and he’d always be waiting for her to come home.  _

But it doesn’t yet feel like time.

She glances at the other letter, with a red seal and a lion imprinted in it. She can imagine the messy lettering that would be on that parchment, the untidy hand of one Jaime Lannister, and she knows it’s  _ not quite time _ . 

But she writes to her father that night anyway - a letter she should have written before the Long Night fell, the letter that Jaime had sent on her behalf, without her permission, but with all her heart. She tries not to let her tears smudge the ink as she struggles to remember the way she used to write. 

\-- 

The army marching south takes a break at an empty field a little ways after dusk. Squires rush to set up camp, commanders make sure their men are kept warm and well fed, but Jaime is happy to have a little tent to himself and Gendry. The blacksmith sticks with him, partly because there aren’t many others in the camp who he’d intrude on, and Jaime is glad for the company. 

The newly-declared Lord of Storm’s End doesn’t have the swagger yet, but there is a kindness and understanding in his eyes that Jaime wishes Robert had.  _ Maybe she’d have been less cruel if he had been softer with her.  _

“Ser Brienne, she said you were to have this.” Gendry holds out a hand, fashioned with blue steel, with a little hook where the thumb should be. “She said it might be more useful to you than a silly gold hand. Her words, not mine.” 

Jaime can’t help his drunken smile. It was the same blue of the armour that he had commissioned for her, and he knows it was probably a deliberate choice on her part.  _ Her gift - and he sees how it will be of better use to him. A hook was always more useful than the illusion of a hand, and the blue steel was less glaring than the gaudy gold his father and Cersei had insisted on. The gold was more fitting of a Lannister, they had argued, but Brienne’s gift was much more practical. Much more like what he needed.  _

But he has little time to be sentimental before there is a slight flicker in the fire that he has started, with Tyrion lifting the flaps of their tent to enter. Jaime lets out a small sigh as he slowly unstraps the golden appendage from his stump, looking to replace it with  _ her hand  _ instead. 

“Good evening to you, brother.” 

Gendry senses rightly that it is not a conversation he should be sitting in on, and excuses himself quietly, grabbing two of Jaime’s water skins as he departs the tent. 

“I didn’t think you’d be coming with us, you know.” “I have to, don’t I.” 

“I thought you were happy in Winterfell.” Tyrion says the word with a harshness, breaking up the two syllabuses in ‘happy’, almost denying its premise. “I thought you were happy with her. What happened?” 

“I was. I think I would have been, if I had stayed.” “You love her.” His younger brother’s tone is measured and his voice is kind, but his eyes are roving, searching for his answer in the dark green eyes of the older Lannister. 

“I do.” Jaime looks into the fire -  _ it reminds him of the hearth in her room -  _ and smiles at the pommel of his sword.  _ Widow’s Wail _ , with its twin left a distance too far behind. “But I have to go to King’s Landing. For Cersei.” 

Tyrion’s face twists into disbelief: “For Cersei.” He almost spits out her name, and Jaime hears the bitterness buried beyond. 

“You were right, you know. I knew what she was, and I believed her anyway. And I think part of me, will always love her, even if we know she has the devil’s heart. No matter what she has become, I can’t just stand aside and let her be burnt to death by the Queen’s dragons. She is our sister, she is our blood, and I love her. And even if I can’t save her from a certain death, I can try. I think we… I think I have a chance to convince her that it doesn’t have to be a war. There have been too many battles in King’s Landing, in these lands of Westeros. We could do with a little peace.” 

“Peace is not a word that agrees with Cersei, nor Daenerys, and you know it.” 

“I owe it to  _ her  _ to try.” “Then what about your Maid of Tarth, if you love her as you claim?” 

“I love her. But how am I to love her in a world where I have just given my sister to the devil and let her rot, waiting for the Stranger to take her with all the worst in her heart? What kind of man would I be, if I couldn’t protect my sister from her certain death?”  _ Nothing’s more hateful than failing to protect the ones you love.  _

“You’re an awful person, brother.” 

He doesn’t deny it. 

\--

Jaime sleeps fitfully in his tent - he dreams of the dream where Brienne plunges her sword into him, once again. Except this time she doesn’t tell him that  _ she doesn’t love him anymore _ , she tells him that he’s doing the right thing.  _ And then he dreams of Brienne again, and this time they are on a beach, the sun is warm above their heads, and it is warm enough to roll up their breeches, to shed their gloves and coats and boots. The sand is fine under their feet, slightly damp from the waves that come every few seconds. He dreams of her diving with him into the sapphire waters, leading him into the small caves where she used to hide from her septa and all the boys that made fun of her. He smiles in his sleep as she holds his face in her hands and grazes his nose with her own. In this dream his hand is not gold but blue.  _

_ We could have it all. We could have had it all.  _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said the last chapter wouldn't be up for a while, and I wouldn't be here - but the impending finale weighs on my mind and I can't help but carry this on.


	9. March South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime always liked the blue of the sea more than the green of the leaves.

Winterfell is quiet now that the troops have left. A smattering of aged fighters, happy enough to be  _ alive _ , too weary to think about rebuilding the homes that they have lost. Many of them are still trying to look for their loved ones, hoping they are still around, somewhere, waiting to be found. 

Women and children, set to work in any place that they can be of use. The maesters try to conduct some classes for those of age, but there’s too much battle in many of these children to sit still for long. Many of them have chosen to take up arms, have set their minds to becoming the knights and warriors that they saw fall before them, even if their lady tries to advise them that they need to learn to live in a world which isn’t all about war. 

It’s easier said than done. 

Brienne strides around the practice yard, spars with some of the younger men who chose to stay in Winterfell with their loyalty pledged squarely to the Starks. Lord Royce has decided to stay in Winterfell with a third of the Vale’s best arms for a little longer. To make sure that the North is in good hands, he said. Sansa wasn’t in a position to disagree.

Her mind flickers to Jaime, whenever they receive a raven from the men on the road. A couple of times Sansa tells her that it was Tyrion’s hand, and how many days they are from King’s Landing, what they’re seeing on the Kingsroad. His letters never do mention his brother, but why would they? 

She still hasn’t opened his letter, it sits on the desk in her new chambers. She was moved to larger, airier rooms, after she agreed to take on the Master-of-Arms title once Lord Royce left Winter fell. 

But after the third sennight from when they left, Sansa calls her to her chambers in the middle of the day. 

“My lady, you asked to see me?”

“A raven arrived with two letters this morning, Ser Brienne. One’s from my brother, and the other was from Ser Jaime. It was addressed to you.” 

“Thank you, my lady.” Brienne picks up the letter, with the same red seal affixed to it, and turns to leave the room. 

“Do you wish to go to King’s Landing, Brienne?” Her voice is softer this time, less formal, and almost  _ pleading.  _

“My place is by you, my lady. In Winterfell. Ser Jaime… he has a duty to fulfill in King’s Landing, and my place is not there, not with him, not this one.”

“Do you think he still loves her?”

Brienne doesn’t meet Sansa’s eyes - they are piercing, with the same questioning glare she had often seen her give those she was uncertain of. 

“I believe he does. And he always will. She is his sister, his blood.”  _ And his lover for a long time, she doesn’t need to say it.  _

“Do you love him?” 

“I do. But he is compelled by duty to stop her madness, he says, and I believe him. My love matters not here, honour and duty does. If you’d excuse me, my lady, I will get back to the lads.” 

She bows hurriedly, and walks towards one of the quieter towers with Jaime’s letter in hand. She melts the seal with one of the torches along the way, and gently opens it, half-knowing what she’s expecting. 

_ Dear Brienne _

_ We’ll probably be less than a sennight from King’s Landing when you see this. We’ve ridden longer hours than we probably should, but we are close now. Morale is high, the men seem ready. One of the boys you taught has been preparing my horse each day - I forgot how it was to have a squire do your bidding.  _

_ Have you read the letter from Lord Selwyn? I surmise you haven’t seen mine, since you haven’t written me in all these days. It’s alright. _

_ We passed by Harrenhal - I think you’d be happy to know that there is a bear pit no more. It does still smell like death, though, but I suppose everywhere does now.  _

_ After this is all over - if it is ever all over - I’d like to go to Tarth. It’ll be nice to be someplace warm, won’t it? And maybe you can take an absence from Winterfell - you can have a break from duty - and we can visit your father. He doesn’t seem to hate me, not from his letters. But I’ll have to find out for myself, won’t I?  _

_ If you’d have me. _

_ Jaime _

It is nothing like she expected - she’d thought he would tell her of what they were planning, and a goodbye - but this is not a goodbye. It feels like a promise, almost. To go to Tarth. 

She tries to remember all that was good about home before she left to join Renly’s army. The vibrant blues are faded now, cloaked in the fog that seems to be everywhere whenever she closes her eyes. 

She remembers being a child and in her father’s embrace, standing in his solar after Galladon passed. She remembers him telling her that it was alright if she rather wore breeches than gowns, if she’d rather have a sword when she came of age rather than fine jewellery. She could be all the things she wished, but there was a duty that she had to fulfill. 

There is a pang of sadness when she thinks about all that she has not been. For all of the warrior dreams she has chased, she has not been a good child, an absent heir. And her father is no longer young, there must be more white than grey in his hair now. And she wouldn’t know it. 

Maybe when this ends,  _ she thinks _ ,  _ we can go to Tarth.  _

\-- 

They receive word before setting off on their last leg to the capital, that wildfire has been put in the tunnels across the city. Lord Varys’ little spies have sent him many ravens, with half of them indiscernible. “They would have been intercepted, but some of them are true,” the Master of Whispers had said blandly. 

He is confident that the wildfire is true. And Jaime believes him.  _ Which is why I need to get to her before Daenerys does.  _

Jaime is appreciative of the Northern lords who have made the trip down, and Jon’s surprising battle acumen. They have fewer men and resources than the Lannisters, Iron Fleet and Golden Company combined, and the disadvantage of an unfamiliar terrain.

But they have Dothraki and Unsullied with unbridled loyalty, and Jaime wonders if that will be enough. Against mercenaries and those compelled to fight, it has been refreshing to see men so ready to lay down their lives, fight after fight, for a woman who is not their blood. 

_ It is her strength. And she will make a better ruler than Cersei, with the right advisors to keep her mind. There is fairness in the child, and an unselfish desire to right some wrongs, even if she seems cocooned in her self-entitlement. _

He wonders how Cersei will react when she sees him - whether it will be more anger, frustration, or softness. _But she was never soft_ _towards him_. 

Jon agrees to give him two men, young squires he’s had a part in training, Jaime likes to think, and to get to Cersei before they attack. “Ring the bells once she’s agreed, Ser Jaime. We could do with no more bloodshed on these lands.” 

_ Would she? _

He walks into Tyrion’s tent, the night before they are due to sneak into the Red Keep. His brother is looking into the fire, even though they’re both sure by now that the fire does not speak to them, but there has been a growing chill in King’s Landing despite the promise of spring. 

“Do you think it’ll work?”

“If the Clegane monster doesn’t get to me first, I think we’ve got a shot.” 

“Speaking of which - you haven’t heard anyone talking about the Hound or the Stark girl, have you?” 

\--

One of the Northern commanders, a fisherman in his day, helps them get a small boat that somehow manages to sneak past the Iron Fleet’s guard on the other side of the capital, and one of the squires with him turns out to be better with oars than a blade. 

They’re near the Red Keep, at a little opening to the sea where Jaime would escape to for a little quiet when being a child surrounded by grown Kingsguard knights got too much.  _ He remembers meeting Cersei at this very spot, hidden, yet exposed to the whole world - if they would just look, if they would just see for themselves.  _

Willem and Fredrick jump out just after he does, and make quick work of the ropes to anchor the little boat. As hoped, there are no guards stationed there -  _ they must be busy getting the gates closed _ . 

He leads them up a spiral staircase in the darkness, and he senses their mistrust - why wouldn’t they? The path is mossy, humid and cold, with torch-stands that look like they have not been lit for years. It’s strange, because Jaime remembers this place very differently - an oasis to savour, although many of his companions favoured the lush gardens instead.  _ But Jaime always liked the blue of the sea much more than the green of the leaves.  _

However, as they approach the top of the tower, he senses something is amiss - it is much too quiet, and it wonders if his sister’s paranoia has worsened in the months that he has been away. If she has sent away all the guards in the belief that only the Mountain could be trusted to be absolutely loyal,  _ or if this was a ruse -  _

His thoughts are interrupted by a small explosion not too far from the Keep, and he glances out of a small window, strewn with cobwebs.  _ Green, he realises. The unmistakable green of wildfire.  _

“Quicker!” He leaps up the stairs rapidly, and the two squires barely keep up, as he throws himself into the room where he knows his sister awaits, he hears the all-too-familiar clang of metal crashing from within. 

She’s not alone. The maester Qyburn, has his arms folded in a smug manner, but the Mountain and several knights have drawn their swords. He realises in horror that it’s the Hound and the Stark girl -  _ they must have ridden ahead off the Kingsroad, but what fucking idiocy got into their heads to think this was a good idea? _

“Stop!” He yells, but he recognises the look in the younger Clegane’s eyes - he is out for blood. 

The Stark girl is quick, and she makes easy work of the guards, she’s swifter with her little sword, and easily dodges their clumsy swings, undoubtedly obstructed by the helms they insist on donning.

Jaime hesitates to engage, but his eyes fall on Cersei - she is still distracted, holding a wine goblet in her right hand, gazing out of the window,  _ the same window from which Tommen jumped _ . For a moment he wonders if she is thinking of the same, but he realises that she  _ is not with child _ , and there is a steely coldness in her eyes that he doesn’t quite recognise, not anymore.

“Cersei.” 

She turns around slowly, despite the wretched melee that has unfolded, and smiles at him.  _ Once upon a time that smile would have gotten me weak and pandering to all her wants,  _ but right now that smile just feels  _ wrong, it’s not real _ . “Jaime. I knew you’d come back for me. We’re not going to lose. There are so many more, waiting for them,  _ to discover. _ ”

As she says that, another small explosion goes off, this time eastward, and Jaime rushes towards her, taking her in his arms. “You have to stop it - the people, they are innocent,  _ her  _ armies are not even within the city’s gates. You can stop it. It doesn’t have to be this way. You could go somewhere else, live a better life, a happier life. It doesn’t have to be this way.” 

She pushes him away roughly, and her tone is bitter. “A better life? I have nothing but the crown, Jaime. You’re not here for me, you’re here for  _ her _ . I had nothing but you - but you are not mine anymore. You left me,” she spits, giving him the same look  _ his father had given Tyrion each time he passed him as a small child _ . 

“You are still my sister, my other half.” He pleads with her, softer this time, and tries to pull her into an embrace. 

“You left me, Jaime. For someone younger, even if not more beautiful.” But there is no sadness in her eyes, no disappointment, only vengeful hatred. 

_ And in this moment Jaime knows that she cannot be saved.  _

“I’m sorry.” 

He unsheathes Widow’s Wail, _ the blade she had once been so proud to see their firstborn hold, as undeserving as he had always been,  _ and drives it through her foot -  _ which he had once held on waiting for life to be bestowed upon him. She had always told him that her foot was their bind, they were connected there, forever.  _

“You left, Jaime.” “I loved you.” 

“You promised.” She pleads with him, and for a moment Jaime forgets that there are others in the room, and doesn’t realise that the Mountain is headed for him, with his massive sword ready to take his head. 

_ Only he doesn’t.  _

The Stark girl jumps between them, and the Hound’s blade is driven into the back of his brother’s thick neck - but the wound draws no blood. Arya sticks her sword into his side, where there is no armour, but even so, the Mountain pushes against the wounds and swings his sword wildly. 

“The dagger!” Jaime yells, looking at the Valyrian steel dagger - the same dagger that had ended the Night. 

The Stark girl fumbles for it, but her hands only manage to grapple onto one of the dragonglass blades that Gendry had given her. She sticks it into the Mountain’s eye, just as his blade meets her thigh, and the monster finally gives way. 

He turns back to Cersei, her face white from the loss of blood - and her eyes are now pleading. “Jaime - they don’t matter. No one else matters, only us. Only us. You are mine and I am yours. They can’t hurt us. You can’t let them.” 

_ But he knows that she’s too far gone to be saved. And this time, he can’t save her.  _

“I’m sorry.” He wraps his one good hand around the neck,  _ giving her a quicker death  _ than to bleed her life away. “I loved you, Cersei. I really did. I did everything for you, and I would have done them for you twice over.” 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, as he feels her body go limp in his hand, and the blood drain from her face, and she crumples into his arms as he lets go.

_ What have I done? _

He turns to Qyburn - “Stop them. There can be no more wildfire.” He knows the rejected maester values his life, and the dark-haired man scurries off, yelling at the men who have arrived at the doors. 

“Clegane - ring the bells. You have to ring the bells before they bring the dragon in, it’ll be too late.” The man is bleeding with wounds all over his torso, but they don't look deep, and the large man doesn't hesitate to head for the bell towers.

He looks at Arya, her leg bleeding profusely, and she has torn both of her sleeves off to try and stem the flow. “I’ll survive, Ser Jaime.”  _ Not like her.  _

Willem and Fredrick are lain on the ground - their limbs at odd angles, slits at their throats.  _Two more heads gone on his watch_. 

He looks at Cersei, her green eyes wide open, her short hair soft in his hands.  _ I loved you, I loved you more than everyone else, and I would have given the world for you.  _ He had hoped to save her, take her away from her growing madness, to bring her to somewhere quiet where she could have a new life, even if he couldn’t be her other half in that life, but now he has her blood on his hands. 

He holds her, cradling her like they never could in her bed, the last time they were this way was when they were children - softly, like she could never hurt him; tenderly, like he would never get to hold her again; longingly, like it was their last goodbye before she left the Rock.  _ He remembers the last time they had a hug on Casterly Rock, when she told him that one day she’d be Queen, but Jaime would always be her knight, and that she trusted him, to always be her protector, no matter who wore the white or the colours of the king.  _

_ She had made him promise, that it would only be them, no matter what others would say. They were lions, they came together and they were meant to leave together, they would leave in red and gold.  _

_ I’m sorry. I had always loved you. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. I wonder how it'll have been if Jaime had this struggle in the show - whether he could truly save Cersei or whether she was too far gone to still be his, and I have no doubt that Nikolaj and Lena would have played it brilliantly. 
> 
> May make some tweaks and cleaning up in earlier chapters, they're a little rough now that I read back on them. Let me know how this one was for you. There aren't many chapters left.


End file.
